“Det här är ingen rolig dag” – som vanligt är det svårt att hålla med Jimmie Åkesson

Som Londonbussar på bloggen just nu – inget på svenska på länge (om alls), sen kommer en massa grejer samtidigt.

Enligt Twitter har Erik Almqvist, ledande politiker i Sverige Demokraterna, avgått precis.

Stackars Erik kom inte ihåg att han var rasist tills han fick videobevis – filmad av hans kompis och partikamrat Kent Ekeroth.

Allt detta är förstås helt ointressant.

Det som är intressant just nu är kriskommunikationen från SD:s höll då de försöker övertyga nationen återigen att de inte är rasister – att Almqvist är undantag snarare än regel.

Men videon visar inte bara att Almqvist är rasist – den visar också att Christer Westling har starkt otrevliga åsikter i ämnet de som får vistas i Sverige och hur de ska behandlas.

Kent Ekeroth visar på vilket allvar rasismen inom partiet tas genom att inte göra något alls, utan istället filma hela grejen.

Men mest allvarlig är Jimmie Åkessons reaktion:

Det vi sett är uttalanden och uppträdanden som är fullständigt oacceptabla. Jag menar att det här är de ända rimliga konsekvenserna.

Det här är ingen rolig dag. Det kan vara en av de värsta dagarna både på ett politiskt och personligt plan.

Frågan är vilken dag han menar. Är det den dagen han fick reda på att Almqvist, Westling och Ekertoh hade gjort bort sig igen?

Eller menar han idag, dagen resten av Sverige fick reda på att Almqvist hade ljugit och att partitoppen är fortfarande befolkat av rasister?

Det talar att poängteras igen – rykande pistolen här hölls inte av Expressen (trots ett bra journalistiskt jobb) – den hölls av SD själva då det var Kent Ekeroth som filmade.

Ett besök till Almqvists Facebook-uppdatering om ämnet är skrattretande – det “förvånar” honom att han inte kommer ihåg vad han sa.

Och så är det ju, inte minst eftersom han hade en videoinspelning för att hjälpa honom minnas.

Kommentarerna är särskilt roliga – om du har en halvtimme lägg gärna den på att få dig ett inblick i hur snedvriden den sverigedemokratiska världen är genom att läsa dem.

Hur fel det än är, är man rasist så får man stå för det.

Gång på gång på gång har det visats att folk inom SD har starkt rasistiska åsikter, vilket verkar vara helt okej i partiet – bara man inte luftar dem offentiligt.

Men att medvetet ljuga och säga att man inte är det – som Almqvust har gjort – är att vilseleda det svenska folket.

Eller i alla fall den delen som fortfarande tror att SD inte är ett politiskt parti med rasism och främlingsfientlighet som grundpelare.

In Flanders fields, the poppies blow…

Sankt Patrick försökte förklara den katolska guden för irländarna genom att  använda treklövern.

Med det lyckades han bra, och landet var nästan uteslutande katolik i bra många år, ändå tills britterna tog med sig protestantism när de invaderade landet.

I Sverige har Sportbladet en egen helig treklöver av fotbollsskribenter i Erik Niva, Simon Bank och Robert Laul. Vem som är gud, Jesus och den helige anden får ni försöka klura ut själva.

Erik nämnde ikväll på sitt Twitter-konto att Sunderlands James McClean vägrade ta på sig vallmoblomman som vid den här årstiden – “den elfte timmen på den elfte dagen i den elfte månaden” – används för att hedra stupade brittiska soldater.

Han frågade var det rätt eller fel i mina irländska ögon.

Jag tänkte noga innan jag svarade – det är ju Twitter, och allt går att missupfatta.

Till slut sa jag att det var krångligt och svårt, men jag hade gjort likandant som McClean.

Twitter ger inte utrymme för en mer grundlig förklaring av värför – det tar vi här istället.

Vallmoblomman valdes ursprungligen som ett sätt att minnas de stupade eftersom den växte kring slagfälten i första världskriget.

“In Flanders Fields”, en dikt skriven av kanadensaren John McCrae, beskriver hur det såg ut.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Alla med någon som helst hjärnfunktion fattar att dessa unga män som gav sina liv för att bekämpa fascismen förtjänar all heder och respekt. Detsamma gäller det andra världskriget.

Men någonstans på vägen ändrades meningen litegrann.

Och snart var det inte bara dessa män som dog i första och andra världskriget som skulle hedras, utan alla (framförallt brittiska) soldater som stupade i krig.

Här blir det knepigt för James McClean och jag.

För lika mycket som deras insatser i första och andra världskriget uppskattas, brittiska soldater har ju gjort hemska saker  också, inte minst på Irland – och en hel del av dessa ägde rum i Derry, James McCleans hemstad.

Ett exempel.

1972 sköts 26 obeväpnade civila i the Bogside i Derry.

13 av dessa var unga män – inte olikt James McClean – som dog på plats.

En till dog nästan fem månader senare.

Vad gjorde alla dessa människor för att bli skjutna av de brittiska fallskärmstrupperna?

De marscherade för sina medborgliga rättigheter.

Truppera sa at Irish Republican Army (IRA) var aktiva i området, att de unga männen var beväpnade, att det kastades bomber.

Det var lögn.

Det tog nästan fyrtio år men till slut tvingades David Cameron, den brittiska premiärministern, att erkänna att allt var lögn.

De var inga brottslingar, de var inga terrorister – de var unga män som mördades av andra unga män, som råkade vara brittiska soldater.

Brittiska soldater som nu skall hedras med vallmoblomman.

Det är i den skuggan James McClean och många andra i Nordirland växt upp.

Inte konstigt att vissa är fortfarande hätska, bittra, och inte bara mot soldaterna – jag har fått höra mer än en gång hur “youse people” (dvs de som kommer från den irländska republiken) övergav vara bröder och systrar i Derry under den tiden.

Jag håller med.

Jag tog min svenska hustru och mina barn till platsen där “Bloody Sunday” ägde rum i somras.

En grå julidag i lätt duggregn blev den första gången mina barn såg mina tårar.

Men som jag sa till Erik – det är en krånglig fråga och en Twitter-post duger inte till.

De är många som håller fast vid traditionen – och inte bara protestanter eller unionister heller.

(För bra många år sedan var min egen farfar i princip hemlös i London. Han stoppades av en polis, som frågade honom varför han inte gick med i armén. “Konstapel,” sa farfar, “ser jag ut som jag har något värt att kämpa för..?”)

Det var många irländare (katoliker allstså) som skrev in sig i den brittiska armén – särskilt under första världskriget – och som dog i Flanders, Ypres eller Gallipoli.

Som varje år sedan 1920 skulle dessa hedras i november 1987 när IRA detonerade en bomb i Enniskillen.

63 människor skadades. Elva dog.

Bland de döda var Marie Wilson, som höll i pappa Gordons hand medan livet sipprade ur henne.

“Pappa, jag älskar dig väldigt mycket,” sa hon. Fem minuter senare nådde räddningspersonalen fram.

Marie var död.

Men istället för att vara en IRA-succé blev det tvärtom. Det var bland det mest fruktansvärda som hände i ett fruktansvart krig.

Tack vara Maries pappas dignitet – “jag bär inget illvilja. Jag bär inget agg” - började folket att vända sig emot våldsverkarna.

Passande nog blev bombningen en vändpunkt i “kriget” – ingen hade lust längre att lägga till flera namn som skulle hedras varje år på den elfte dagen, i den elfte månaden.

Fredsrörelsen – med Maries pappa Gordon i spetsen – tog fart. Det tog tid, men nu finns det ett slags fred i Nordirland.

Den är inte perfekt, och det är långt kvar att gå, men ingen dör dagligen längre. Och det är jag tacksam för ialla fall.

Jag är uppvuxen som katolik och nationalist.

Jag tycker att Irland ska vara självständig, styrd av irländarna själva med respekt för alla traditioner.

Jag tycker inte att britterna ska ha något att säga till om det.

Men jag hatar de som dödade Marie Wilson och alla de andra som dog den dagen i Enniskillen.

Jag hatar de som hotade och dödade och lemlastade deras egna grannar under en nästan fyrtioårsperiod – trots att våldsverkarna och jag delar samma vision för ett fritt och fridfullt Irland.

Jag hyllar inte dem, och jag hyllar inte heller fallskärmstrupperna som i sina värsta stunder var lika onda, elaka och hatfulla, som hånade och förtryckte och gjorde livet till misär för många i Nordirland.

Och framförallt i nationalistiska Derry.

Det är därför jag inte bär en vallmoblomma.

Jag bär inte påskliljan – som används ju för att hedra de nationalisterna som dog – av samma anledning.

Men den dagen de hittar på en blomma för att hedra Gordon Wilson kommer jag att bära den istället.

Long night ahead…possibly a longer four years.

They’re voting, and counting, ans exit-polling. On both sides of the Atlantic, the pundits and anchors are warming up for the long night ahead.

Already there has been one winner, and that is American politics – despite its Taliban-like Christian tendencies, the end of the Tea Party means there is hope for the greatest country in the free world.

In the end Romney – despicable though he is – has done his nation a great service, perhaps two. He moved Republicanism back towards a mellower middle ground, after its long and dangerous flirtation with the far-right ideology of the Tea Party.

He also revealed that the central tenet of Republicanism remains unchanged – it doesn’t care about the poor. They talk about freedom and equality of opportunity for all, but in power they are rabidly protectionist of their own interests.

This ultimately will be what loses Romney the race. The American people have had it too tough for too long to swallow his schtick, and they’re ready to dig in together for a better future.

But if expectations on Obama were high before, they should be higher now.

Just as W used his second term to ride roughshod over common sense, Obama must now sail closer to the wind and insist on delivering the change people voted for four years ago – never mind now.

Lastly, the people of Syria will be watching tonight and wondering why Obama won’t grant them the same freedom and security – the peace, liberty and justice for all so cherished by Americans.

An Obama victory is but a temporary relief, and a welcome end to the Tea Party. But if he fails to deliver the change he promised – as he has in his first term – many voters will feel short-changed.

It won’t bring back the 96 dead whose memory was pissed on for 23 years by the police, successive governments and the Sun newspaper.

Given that 23 years have passed, it will hardly offer much comfort to those whose relatives were described as drunken, inhuman, thieving thugs by the police- an explanation swallowed hook line and sinker by Thatcher and her cabinet.

And it certainly won’t help the families of the 41 people whom the new report suggests could have been saved, had the police and health services there to protect them not been so inept.

Cameron has become the expert at apologising for the sins of the past, all the while trying to minimise their effect on his political future.

This is the second time he has told the world what it already knew (the first was Bloody Sunday); then, as now, he should get no credit for it.

In the case of Hillsborough it’s 23 years too late, and prolonging the wrong is almost as bad as doing it in the first place.

For today is not a day of “Justice for the 96,” and without any concrete action yet, Cameron’s sorry has no meaning.

There is no closure here. No redemption. No justice.

That justice can and will only come when those who desecrated the memories of the 96 people who died at Hillsborough by their lying testimony and their comprehensive 23-year cover-up are hauled before the courts and made to account for their actions.

And this includes the venerable Margaret Thatcher, whose hatred of Liverpool and its people was a barely-concealed secret during her time in office.

For once, society has to show that the ordinary working-class people, on whose backs the wealth of our nations is built, are also deserving of justice.

Throughout history, from Bloody Sunday to Bhopal, we have ignored their cries for justice until it was too late.

Britain can start now, by weeding out the liars in the police force, by turning its back on Thatcher, by condemning the Sun to the pages of history, and by putting them all on trial for their criminal acts.

Then, and only then, will we truly have Justice for the 96.

The fight goes on.

Germany’s foreign minister lays a wreath at Oslo cathedral to remember the 77 people murdered by Anders Behring Breivik.

There is an expression in Norwegian that has always intrigued me.

It’s interjected into sentences, much the same way as Londoners use “innit” or Dubliners “you know what I mean.”

In Norwegian, it’s “ikke sant?”

Literally translated, it means “not true,” but Norwegians use it as a conversational question with the tone rising on the last syllable.

It’s a clever, almost passive-aggressive way of getting people to agree with you.

It is, it seems, a much more effective method of doing so than, say, terrorism.

It wasn’t needed yesterday though, as almost everyone was delighted that Anders Behring Breivik was found to be sane and criminally liable for the deaths of 77 innocent people – many of them children in the eyes of the law – and sentenced to 21 years in prison.

For the record, the chances of him ever coming out of prison are up there with Elvis returning to play 18 holes on the moon.

In their verdict, the five judges sentenced him to 21 years “preventative detention” and said that there was a very strong possibility that he would remain a threat to society even after his tariff is served; if he is, his detention can be extended for five years at a time.

He will never walk the streets of Oslo as a free man again.

The reaction on the streets was a mixture of fatigue and relief.

People are sick of being asked about him. Sick of hearing about him, and what he did. Sick of trying to work out what his actions say about Norway, and themselves.

But the relief now outweighs that. That Anders Behring Breivik wasn’t shot dead in the dirt of Utoya – like so many of his victims – is a good thing for the healing process in Norway.

If he had been, he would have been martyred for the cause of extreme nationalism, and we would never have understood what made him carry out such unspeakable acts.

But over the ten weeks of his trial we have come to understand him better – his callousness, his twisted logic, his hatred.

We have seen a vanity in him that would make Narcissus blush. And we have seen a total lack of empathy with his victims.

At times we have seen behind the facade – the obsessive organising of  paper and pens before he answered the judge’s question about whether or not he accepted the verdict, quickly followed by the flash of darkness as he attempted to apologise to fellow extreme nationalists for not killing even more innocent children.

Most of all, we saw the smile as the verdict was announced. Breivik welcomed the verdict with something between a grimace and a smirk.

In his own mind, he was victorious yesterday in Court 250 of Oslo’s Tinghus, but it was the people of Norway that won.

And over the next 21 years, Breivik will have plenty of time to reflect over why his actions haven’t launched the war on immigrants he so longed for, and why the people of the blood he was so intent of protecting have rejected him, and all he stands for.

Oslo is a small city, and in the early afternoon I left the courthouse are to walk to the cathedral.

I watched as the German foreign minister laid a wreath at the large red heart that stands in memories of those killed by the hateful, pudgy, vain Breivik.

He, like the rest of the civilised world, rejected Breivik.

And on the way back to the courthouse the ordinary people of Norway spoke of how they wanted to put this behind them and start rebuilding the safe, harmonious society that was blown away by Breivik’s bombs and bullets.

And that is something we can all support them in, ikke sant?

The offending tweet from Herb Street.

It was the stark, casual, easy laziness of our return to racism that was so disappointing, and yet so predictable.

Moments before, John Joe Nevin had fought himself to  a standstill in an effort to deliver another Olympic gold medal for his country.

An honourable silver later and you would have thought the red carpet would be rolled out from Dublin airport to Mullingar.

Instead,  whoever controls the Twitter account of the Herb Street restaurant in Dublin decided to put Nevin back in his place.

In a single tweet (see image), he and his family were just another bunch of thieving Travellers.

It wasn’t a case of Nevin going from hero to zero – he simply returned to where he and his people have always been for many in  Irish society.

Then came the defence of Herb Street – first the operator of the account tried (laughably) to claim that “a prat” had taken his or her phone and posted the now-deleted “joke”.

It’s the online equivalent of “the dog ate my homework”.

Then other Twitter users started to ask what the big deal was – it was only a joke. And of course they were right – it was ‘only’ a joke.

But here’s the big deal- it wasn’t a joke furtively shared amongst friends in a pub, an aside soon forgotten.

It was a very, very public joke, and in very bad taste, in front of an audience of thousands during the biggest sporting event on the planet,  perpetuating one of the most damaging prejudices about the Travelling people, from the account of what was previously a reputable business in Dublin.

That was the big deal.

Many seemingly failed to grasp that fact, and more defences came.

“Travellers aren’t politically correct themselves.”

It doesn’t matter.

“You never see any gay or divorced or handicapped travellers.”

That doesn’t matter either.

“It’s just a joke- hardly the crime of the century.”

Again, it doesn’t matter.

The joke was wrong. Denying making it was wrong.  Not apologising properly was – and is – wrong.

It took thirteen hours for a lame effort at an apology to be made – with no acceptance of responsibility, or no explanation of how the tweet came to be sent.

Now I know (or used to know) a lot of Travellers back in Dublin. I know how annoying and abrasive and aggressive some of them can be.

I know that some can be violent, and I know that there are Travellers involved in criminal behaviour.

I’ve run into them on several occasions here in Sweden too, and it hasn’t often been a positive experience.

But I also know good, decent Travelling people who frown on all that, who see the value of education and integration and wrestle with their traditions and their instincts as they strive to give their families a better future.

I know of people heartbroken when their children come home with more tales of how they were barred from shops or called ‘dirty knackers’ by passers-by for no reason.

I know of the families who encourage the John Joes of this world to work hard and look after themselves, who fill them with pride and desire to do well for their families, their people, their country.

I know how they struggle with those who – on both sides – say that there is no point, because they’ll never be allowed in.

We’ll never let them in. We will never accept them.

Instead, we’ll let them represent our country, and then when we’re done with them we’ll go back to the old ways and make jokes denigrating them.

Maybe, thanks to some idiot at Herb Street, now is the time to start the dialogue needed, but I doubt it can happen.

The issue of Travellers in Ireland and England is usually enough to have otherwise reasonable people reaching for arguments they would never use in a discussion about Muslims or Africans or Jews, but somehow it’s OK when it’s “our own.”

Maybe Herb Street can make it up to John Joe and his family by telling them the truth about how the tweet came to be posted, and what they’re doing about it.

Then maybe they could put the kettle on and invite us all over to discuss how his success in the boxing ring as part of Team Ireland could be translated into other areas of society.

I just hope their food isn’t as tasteless as their jokes, and that it doesn’t take thirteen hours to get something resembling service – or a proper answer.

Not Niamh Horan.

I once didn’t take some pictures that would have earned thousands of euros in a heartbeat.

AIK had played Levski Sofia in a Europa league qualifier, and as I left the ground fans of the Swedish club set about attacking their opponents’ team bus.

In my bag I had a professional-quality digital camera, zoom lenses, flashes, the works- all I had to do was pull it out and snap the action.

I would have made a fortune from the Swedish tabloids if I’d only captured the moment a brick was hurled through the window of the bus.

I didn’t, because had I done so the guys attacking the bus (hooligans whom I’ve crossed paths with before) would probably have attacked me instead, leading to an immense amount of damage to me and my equipment.

Instead, I got out of there and reported the story from safe distance, because sometimes as a journalist, you don’t take a picture or ask a question in the interests of your own safety.

It’s called professional judgment, and it seems to be sorely lacking over at the Sunday Independent.

Last week, Niamh Horan filled the front page with a report of how she was almost attacked by an Irish property developer in a bar in Portugal.

I’d love to be able to link to her report to let you see for yourself how bad it was, but I can’t, as the Sindo promptly removed it from its website.

Remarkably, there was a follow-up piece today denouncing those who criticized Horan for her stupidity and useless writing – but no explanation as to why an article that was deemed front-page material on Saturday night wasn’t allowed to remain online.

Indeed, when I contacted Horan and Sindo columnist Barry Egan via Twitter to ask why it had been removed, the “very brave” (Egan’s words) Horan blocked me.

Aside from being littered with snide references to “competing” journalists and allegations of online bullying, it essentially makes no effort to deal with Horan’s shoddy work, so let’s look at it a little more closely.

Horan – a journalist whose output mainly consists of gossip and harassing middle-aged celebrities like Van Morrison and Sinéad O’Connor, according to a quick Google search – sees a developer in a bar, and thinks that this would make a good story.

What seems to have happened next is that she approached said developer and asked him if he’d like to talk about his situation – this either before or after taking an opportunistic (and frankly awful) picture on her phone.

The developer then apparently threatened to ram his glass down her throat, smashing it in the process, and she ran off crying.

Now let me get one thing straight – there is never a valid reason for threatening a journalist, man or woman.

Unfortunately, given the nature of the job, it happens. All the time.

Despite the frankly bizarre question on the front page of last week’s Sindo, which asked people to identify the “thug” who had threatened her, Horan says she already knew who he was,, and vice versa.

Whatever the odd circumstances, it seems that it was at this point her professional judgment (or the total lack of it) failed her completely.

The man allegedly in Horan’s photo was once sentenced to 26 years in prison for attempted murder, possession of illegal weapons, and robbery, and had spent time on hunger strike – all of which Niamh would have known if she’d done her research properly, or indeed at all.

Had she done so, she would have given him a wide berth.

I’m 6’ 3”, weigh over 90 kilos and play Gaelic football regularly, but even at that I wouldn’t be going up to this guy when he’s full of pints, snapping pictures without his permission and asking questions about his finances. Journalist or not, that’s asking for trouble.

And had Horan called her editors at the Sunday Independent – who, let us remember, are well-versed in dealing with the dangers that face investigative journalists as they go about their work – to consult with them before approaching him, they surely would have said the same thing.

But somewhere  along the line, either she or they failed to correctly assess the situation, thus putting the reporter in grave physical danger. That is not the fault of any tweeter or blogger or critic or “bully”. That is the fault of the Sunday Independent and Niamh Horan.

Despite that, they went ahead and published, only to remove the online version without a trace.

One can only assume that the developer – having not been arrested, tried or convicted of anything like the assault (and maybe even attempted murder) described in Horan’s article – took umbrage at his image being used in this way and in this story, and complained to his lawyers.

I’d love to know for sure, but Niamh dosen’t seem in any hurry to tell me.

Instead, the Sindo article dismissing  criticism of Horan’s amateur efforts at investigative journalism blames – quite incredibly – the recession:

“Media suffering from the effects of recession and other ills are investing too few resources in serious, in-depth reporting on the agents, causes and extent of Ireland’s problems.

When they see an opportunity to highlight an aspect of that bigger story, reporters should be protected against assault and intimidation on the ground, and spared the attention of bullies in cyberspace.” (my italics)

The first duty of the editor is to protect his or her journalists from harm – either physical harm when reporting in the field, or the damage they can do to their careers when writing non-stories that, had they exercised a touch of common sense, never would have arisen.

And if the Sunday Independent feels that too few resources are being invested in investigative reporting, forgive me for suggesting that there might be a very simple way for them to remedy that.

Namely, by the Sunday Independent investing more resources in investigative reporting, and not relying on a gossip columnist striking gold in a pub in Portugal.

It is our moral bankruptcy when it comes to his conflict of interest.

Reilly is a man who, as part of the current cabinet, insists that we pay every penny of the debt foisted upon us by his ilk.

Obviously the same doesn’t apply to his private affairs.

He is also charged with slashing spending on the sick, but his bleating, mewling statement to the Dáil about his difficulties with his business dealings and how difficult it was to sell off his assets blithely ignored a simple truth.

It’s very simple, but let’s spell it out – through his investments, Reilly has a vested interest in making private nursing homes work. If he doesn’t he gets even less back on his money.

At the same time and in his role as health minister, he has announced plans to close nursing homes owned by the state because they weren’t economically viable.

Now, what part of “conflict of interest” does he not understand?

Reilly says he came to politics late, but it appears he wasted no time in learning the dark arts as practiced in Ireland.

If he were offered the portfolio anywhere else but our beloved gombeenocracy, the courses of action available to him when he was offered the health ministry would be clear and simple- either get rid of the interests in private nursing homes and health clinics, or don’t take the job as health minister.

Like the vast majority of people in our gombeenocracy, Reilly chose to ignore that fact and instead tried to ride the two horses at once.

The leader of the gombeenocracy – a man so scared of journalists that he accuses them of assault for asking questions- agreed, calling the allegations of a conflict of interest “preposterous.”

But if hide-and-seek champ Enda was to consult with the mythical “woman in Limerick” after mass some morning about Dr Reilly’s actions, she would surely remind him of the Bible’s words on the subject.

 No one can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other; or else he will be devoted to one and despise the other. You can not serve both God and Mammon.

—Matthew 6:19-21,24

What we now have is a very Irish form of disaster capitalism – not the kind outlined by Naomi Klein in The Shock Doctrine, although that too is being practiced on our shores.

The Irish kind is that we are a disaster at capitalism.

Our gombeenocracy is the EU equivalent of a rogue state where the banks,  the Lowrys, the O’Briens and the Reillys of this world are allowed to do whatever they want, and the Enda Kennys nod their acquiescence, sagely but dumbly.

Even if Reilly is the most honest man in the world, there is still no way he can be both a private investor and in charge of the public purse on the matter. Trying to do so removes all credibility from whatever course of action you take.

After a summer of soccer to divert us, maybe it’s time for Roy Keane to run for office – then we might see the old football truism that the management that got you into a mess are almost never the ones to get you out.

And should Roy take the job, first out the door would be the medical staff, with Reilly leading the way.

The budget will not be drafted in public.
-Enda Kenny

In fairness, he’s not lying.

But it won’t be drafted in Kildare Street either. Nor will it ever again be drafted in Ireland.

This budget will be drafted in Brussels and rubber-stamped in Frankfurt.

Welcome to the post-Yes world. This is what we voted for.

Of course, given the abject failure of this government to address the country’s economic woes – principally caused by the bank debt, whatever the spin doctors might say – this one was a fait accompli long before we voted yes a few weeks ago.

There will be more savage cuts to services. There will be more tax rises.

Fine Gael has even instructed its TDs not to speculate on its contents and that they would be given an “opportunity to offer their thoughts” later – the notion that FG backbenchers will be asked what they think of any measures contained in it is utterly laughable.

For “speculate”, read “debate” or “question.” Neither will be tolerated, and we can expect several months of Brian Hayes spewing party-fed guff about economics, and why we should all beat the cost of his cowardice.

The job of Fine Gael’s backbenchers, as it was in the recent referendum, is to nod sagely at matters they don’t understand and cannot influence. It it the illusion of democracy as practiced in Ireland.

Anyone who questions the logic of the budget proposals will be once again asked where the money will come from, or who will pay the nurses and the gardaí and the teachers.

In a remarkably display of political stupidity, one TD has taken it upon himself to pay a teacher’s salary out of money paid to him by the state.

Some see this as a great act of altruism, when in fact it is one of the most craven acts of political cowardice in a country not lacking candidates.

The TD in question, Brendan Griffin, pledged to give half his salary back to the state as an election gimmick, saying ”we are not all in it for personal gain.”

Shortly afterwards he hired his wife to a job paid by the state without even bothering to create the illusion of fairness by interviewing anyone else.

As if that wasn’t enough, he is now clawing back the €46,000 he pledged to give back to the state – an election gimmick – to pay a teacher whose job would otherwise disappear thanks to cuts imposed by his government – another election gimmick.

This is no great altruistic act on his behalf – it is a simple, grubby, vote-buying exercise.

To make matters worse, he is essentially buying another election with the same €46,000, at the same time as he is admitting that the policies of his government are grievously wrong.

Instead of installing a teacher in his constituency, Griffin could have showed some courage and voted against the cutbacks and against the poor having to bear the brunt of losses not incurred by them.

He didn’t do so. Instead, he chose to insure his political future using your money.

I arrived back from Ukraine yesterday (I learned quickly not to call it “the Ukraine”, as apparently they take offence), where I walked past the tented village protesting at the continued imprisonment of Yulia Tymoshenko every day.

It is a beautiful place, full of tough, creative, resilient people, but if ever there was a country both defined and hampered by corruption, Ukraine seems to be it. ANd the higher up you go, the more corrupt it gets.

My good friend Pelle Blohm was there for a few days too, and he told me of an interesting conversation he had with a tour guide about the political situation.

“She siad there are five or six factions, and it’s all about picking the right one – wind up on the wrong side, and you’re screwed.”

With the likes of Griffin pulling strokeslike this, Ireland is going thew same way.

And with Spain going under and Cyprus asking for a bailout, Kenny will soon have to deliver another austerity budget. With his own backbenchers unwittingly showing their hand, his time will soon be up.

Luckily for him, events will overtake his gullible stupidity, and history will simply remember him as the mewling, cowardly fool who hitched Ireland to the listing ship of the Euro, just before it sank without a trace.

Swedish fans drinking in the sunshine at Euro 2012.

Following the discovery of the body of James Nolan, the following piece was submitted to two Irish newspapers for publication. Both editors said they liked it a lot, but both rejected it. 

It was about 35 degrees in the Euro 2012 Fan Zone in Kiev when my phone rang, but the call still chilled me to the bone.

A journalist colleague rang to say that Polish police were sure that the body recovered from the river Brda in Poland was that of James Nolan, the young Irish soccer fan from Wicklow who went missing on Saturday night.

His wallet and phone had been found. All they were waiting for was a formal identification of his remains by a member of the family.

The sickening feeling brought me back to March 2008, when another young Wicklow man died in similar circumstances in Stockholm, where I have lived for 13 years.

It was a bitterly cold weekend in March and the entire Irish community was out celebrating St Patrick’s Day. John Aherne, who was visiting his friend Karl, left early, stopping off for another drink on the way home.

It was the last time he was seen alive.

On the Sunday we had our annual St Patrick’s Day parade, but later that evening we began to worry. Karl reported John missing, and the slow, agonising search began. It concluded abruptly when John’s body was recovered from the water near where he was last seen.

In truth, it could have been any of us who were out celebrating in Stockholm that weekend, just as any of the Irish fans who were drinking and celebrating in Poland could have met the same fate as James Nolan.

I didn’t know John personally, but because of his death I stopped drinking. I had two small children at home, and his passing made me realize how fragile our lives are..

I still go out, I still enjoy myself. I still go to Ireland games – I was in Estonia the night we beat them 4-0 to all but book our place at the Euros. When the partying gets out of hand, I leave the others to it.

But it seems to me that we no longer know when to stop, or even slow down. That fact has never been more apparent than when Ireland play away.

The joyous party that night in Tallinn slowly descended into drunken oblivion, and when I was leaving my hotel at half past six the next morning, the streets were awash with puke and piss and drunken Irish people. The locals were horrified.

I’ve been based with the Swedish team in Kiev and their fans have been putting away fairly large quantities of alcohol, but the stories that came out of the travelling Irish camp in Poland tell a tale of almost Olympic consumption.

It should come as no surprise then that John Delaney, CEO of the FAI and essentially the man who should be Ireland’s number one football supporter, is seen making tired and emotional speeches on Youtube.

Forget the “Drink Responsibly” campaign and the lip service paid to moderation – Delaney is leading by example, and it’s not a good one. We need to have a serious word with ourselves about our attitude to drink and sport and our national identity.

Go to the Croke Park museum this summer and you’ll see the trophy that we play for in the Nordic GAA championship. It is named after John Aherne, who died so needlessly when out having the craic in Stockholm.

Deeply loved and missed by his family and friends, it is one of the few traces of him that is left in this life. Now another young man from Wicklow – an outstanding soccer player, by all accounts – has gone the same way.

Without an autopsy report it’s too early to say definitively that it was alcohol that took James Nolan’s life.

But what we can say for sure is that drink didn’t help.